


neon lights in Osaka’s night

by itsgameover



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, No one dies don't worry, Non-Linear Narrative, Overdosing, Recreational Drug Use, Rockstar AU, in the beginning only then its straightforward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsgameover/pseuds/itsgameover
Summary: Nakamoto Yuta feels like a reckless drive down Sunset Avenue, like eating something poisonous but incredibly delicious, he feels like drinking beer with the sound of indie music in the background.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	neon lights in Osaka’s night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nakamotoluv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakamotoluv/gifts).



> happy birthday you absolute bundle of joy <3  
> thank you for being my friend, thank you for listening to me all the time, for being kind and sweet and the absolute bestest girl. C, I would take a bullet for you and maybe for Mark Lee too.  
> May you always be as happy as my characters are unhappy :* (lots of happiness for you that is ;))  
> Hope you enjoy this shitty story <3

It bleeds through him like marker through a too thin piece of paper, he is a problematic man with a troubled soul, but he likes to pet street animals and watches anime in the small screen of his IPhone. Yet everyone sees the stage, the leather and the smoke. The magic is there, he is the perfect material for a legend. 

He looks like a Mike Jagger wannabe, like he belongs to Aerosmith some weekends and some others like Freddy Mercury himself has chosen his costumes. Every single day, Nakamoto Yuta feels like a marquesine, bold lettering in white bright background, neon lights in Osaka’s night. 

He keeps his head high, speaks japanese when he thinks no one is watching, writes lyrics in red ink in a notebook with an ‘eat the rich’ sticker pasted over black faux-leather. Yuta is a strange man, a fascinating one. In the midst of memories of smoke and white lines, of vague remembrances of stage lights and loud crowds, he acts like a watered down rockstar, eyes shiny and slurred words, speaking of dreams he can’t achieve, of skies he wants to touch with bare hands. Doyoung always feels like he could reach up to him and tell him heaven is here, but that feels silly, so he just hands him a beer, Osaka’s sky line under their feet.

He wrote Fire Truck one summer, sitting by the swimming pool of Doyoung’s family’s house, drinking cold orange juice, eating onion flavored chips, tapping his fingers and writing down like a madman. Yuta turned over his shoulder when he heard Doyoung approach and made him read it, tapping the rhythm the drums would mark. 

“Yuta, you are a fucking genius” Doyoung said, Yuta’s smile spoke of success beyond words. 

They made it big that year, the small indie band made of a bunch of bored asian teens who played instruments in lieu of making their parents proud by studying medicine or engineering. Suddenly their song was played in every radio station and the crappy bars they used to play in disappeared when festival stages opened up.

Doyoung got his first paycheck eight months later, right after their second big release, Cherry Bomb, and invested it in a new car, one with actual functioning AC. He drove it around one humid april night, drunk Yuta in the backseat with a chick named Stacy who sucked him clean while they were driving. Doyoung’s girl turned out to be more lowkey, blushing at the obscene sounds coming from behind. Her name was Mina and she only kissed him. Good, Doyoung thought as he carried Yuta inside, letting him sleep splayed in the suede couch of his parents’ house, Mina is too good to be just a one time thing. He called her a few days later and she dated him for a while before agreeing to be just friends. 

Johnny, an openly bisexual bassist with quick fingers, joins the band in july as their former bassist moved back to China with his family. The following winter, peppy Mark Lee joins the band, replacing the guitarist who picked a fistfight with Yuta. 

Somewhere in the midst of their american tour, Mark had seen Mina. Maybe Yuta saw her too, as one night commented something about her breasts that made Mark turn red with fury. But Yuta was too busy, this time with a ginger from Minnesota with a tongue piercing, to notice Mark kissing the girl in the couches of their tour bus. Two years later, they got married, Doyoung as the best man. Yuta gifted them a holiday in Bali but didn’t show up for the ceremony. 

In the first stop of their european tour, Yuta meets a blonde girl who speaks english with a thick german accent and decided to take her along for the rest of the tour. Behind the curtains of the brightly lit stages, she sucks him once and twice and enough times to make everyone in the place uncomfortable. 

Somewhere in Poland, he gets rid of her. Mostly because Doyoung kept complaining about her attitude. Yuta tells him he should suck his dick now that she is not here to do it. His jaw drops as Doyoung sinks to his knees and opens his belt. 

“I’m better than her, aren’t I?” Doyoung asks, wiping the cum from his chin with a defiant expression. Yuta gapes and dives forward, tongue forcing Doyoung’s mouth open and making him moan and jump back, surprised. 

Doyoung and Yuta aren’t gay, but when they feel lonely and bored, drunk out of their minds, LSD buzzing in their veins, Mark sleeping in the back of the bus, they find fun in using each other’s bodies to pass the time. There is nothing wrong with kissing in the shady back alley of a bar, nothing wrong with fucking in the bathroom of a nightclub, glitter everywhere, sloppy kisses and chanting each other’s names like a prayer. Yuta never picks another girl again, doesn’t need one when Doyoung is right there, horny when he is, needy and switching whenever he feels like it. 

Somewhere in New Zealand, the last stop of their world tour, Yuta overdoses. Doyoung finds him in his hotel room, passed out, eyes white, and immediately calls their manager. They hook him up to oxygen and keep him in ICU for three whole days before he wakes up. Doyoung stays by his side the whole time, holding his hand, talking to him. He flushes in the hospital’s toilet the rest of their pills, smokes a cigarette when he feels to anxious and eats less and less, too worried to be able to keep himself on check with his diet. 

Yuta tells him he is an idiot for cancelling the tour, dark circles around his eyes, black roots in what used to be pristine silver hair, hooked to a machine. Doyoung shakes his head slowly, taking in all the complaints and screams Yuta reserves for the intimacy of their friendship turned to mutual beneficial service. When his moment of rage is over, Nakamoto Yuta cries and whispers in japanese something Doyoung barely understands. He is calling his mother and maybe asking for a hug. 

Doyoung wraps a blanket around his shoulders the night they leave the hospital, careful to avoid the paparazzis. Yuta’s taken to court for consuming illegal drugs, his punishment is rehab and community service. He tells the judge to fuck off and resistance to authority is added to his charges. 

The band disintegrates a hot summer afternoon. Mark’s wife is pregnant, Johnny can’t deal with Yuta anymore. He tells them both to fuck off, but cries when they leave. Doyoung promises to stay until the end, Yuta also tells him to fuck off, but clings to his shirt and falls asleep in his arms. 

Nakamoto Yuta feels like a reckless drive down Sunset Avenue, like eating something poisonous but incredibly delicious, he feels like drinking beer with the sound of indie music in the background. Sweat is glistening his forehead, matted hair sticking to his skin, sunset warm on his fingertips as their skate over his lover’s thighs, leaving a body on fire in their wake. His body feels like Osaka’s night in summer, his apartment overviewing the city like a hawk searching for a prey. 

Doyoung calls him love the night after the seventh anniversary of the band, one year since they disbanded. Yuta doesn’t say anything, but he threads his fingers through Doyoung’s hair and kisses him until sleep numbs their bodies. 

Doyoung is chosen as the godfather of Mark and Mina’s son, a bubbly child they call Jeno, and Mina insists on introducing him to her best friend, Sejeong. They get along just fine, but his heart can’t find a place for a pretty face like hers when all he can think of is Nakamoto Yuta kissed by sunlight, sleeping under his jacket in the suede couch of his parents’ house. Johnny tells him it's obvious where his heart is, Doyoung doesn't say a thing but he has to admit to himself that it must be true he is lost to Osaka's night. 

In the sunset of September 21st, drinking cheap beer in the balcony of Yuta’s japanese penthouse, Doyoung confesses his love, coming to the realization that he’s never been as happier as he has been with Yuta between his arms. Nakamoto Yuta laughs, a loud rolling thing that reverberates through the air. But then he smiles, softly and kind, something fond simmering under his skin, eyes shining. 

In the space of a few blinks, their distance becomes a memory. Yuta kisses Doyoung, hand gently pressed on the nape of his neck, pressing them together as much as possible, making Doyoung moan and using this as a chance to slide his tongue past the seam of his lips, to make them both hot, bothered and content like a boy with a sated stomach. When they part, Yuta is smiling, lips glossy and cheeks flushed. ‘I know you love me’ he whispers, before dragging Doyoung down with him until both of them are laying on their backs, cold breeze blowing on their exposed calves. 

  
Yuta is gay. He comes out to him a few days later. Doyoung laughs "I think I figured that much", a dumpling lands square on his face, soy sauce dripping down his chin. Yuta's full belly laugh is worth his shame.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter (@kaisooyas) I swear I'm funny


End file.
